The grind
Currently Setul is downstairs watching the TV so loud that I can feel it through the floor. Whatever he's watching is horrible I'm sure. The poo-head.
So I'm at the point where confusion sets in. I don't know what is the wisest course of action, or whether I want to take it. But I do know that I can't think about much else. For those of you who know how I feel you'll understand the internal discomfort this is causing, yet at the same time you understand how happy I am. How I've missed the feeling of not wanting to live just for yourself, however faint that feeling is. How I've missed the refreshing light in a world full of bland, dark gray. How I've missed not having to keep myself happy, and how just the thought of another can accomplish that same goal. And my emotions aren't moving too fast. I can tell this because of the music I discover to apply to how I feel. It isn't songs about a deep rooted, ever-lasting, near torturous compassion that catch my ear. This lightning is NOT fine, and I know this. But it's damn close. I guess, if art can in fact apply true life situations, then all that's left for say, Song for the Girl to hold new meaning would be for her to be able to pick up these tired parts of mine. In the past I made the mistake of letting the thought of "her" pick up said parts. Now I know that this could never work, I would be better off falling in love with my cardboard cut out of Lindsay Lohan if it did. Because, after all, I can just cut a hole in her and could then get everything I would need in the relationship. But I know now that a relationship for someone can't be entirely in my head and heart. It has to be in their's as well, and I am rational enough to wait for that. I am hoping I've learnt enough to keep my heart in check if need be, because it's the difference in strength between head and heart that I find ruins things like this. I want to do it right, or not at all. Loss is no longer the problem it was in the past when logic tells it so. But it does feel good to once again really feel this way for a person. It's a feeling I want to share. Pierre Burton died.
So I'm at the point where confusion sets in. I don't know what is the wisest course of action, or whether I want to take it. But I do know that I can't think about much else. For those of you who know how I feel you'll understand the internal discomfort this is causing, yet at the same time you understand how happy I am. How I've missed the feeling of not wanting to live just for yourself, however faint that feeling is. How I've missed the refreshing light in a world full of bland, dark gray. How I've missed not having to keep myself happy, and how just the thought of another can accomplish that same goal. And my emotions aren't moving too fast. I can tell this because of the music I discover to apply to how I feel. It isn't songs about a deep rooted, ever-lasting, near torturous compassion that catch my ear. This lightning is NOT fine, and I know this. But it's damn close. I guess, if art can in fact apply true life situations, then all that's left for say, Song for the Girl to hold new meaning would be for her to be able to pick up these tired parts of mine. In the past I made the mistake of letting the thought of "her" pick up said parts. Now I know that this could never work, I would be better off falling in love with my cardboard cut out of Lindsay Lohan if it did. Because, after all, I can just cut a hole in her and could then get everything I would need in the relationship. But I know now that a relationship for someone can't be entirely in my head and heart. It has to be in their's as well, and I am rational enough to wait for that. I am hoping I've learnt enough to keep my heart in check if need be, because it's the difference in strength between head and heart that I find ruins things like this. I want to do it right, or not at all. Loss is no longer the problem it was in the past when logic tells it so. But it does feel good to once again really feel this way for a person. It's a feeling I want to share. Pierre Burton died.